


but it will not come near you (unless you want it to)

by LadySpearWife



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Feelings, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 17:56:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21058580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySpearWife/pseuds/LadySpearWife
Summary: “-on me,” Lewis grunts against your neck, “focus on me, Charles.”God forgive you for wanting an easy way out, but you do. You wrap your legs around his waist –stay, stay, stay, it screams. You breath in the infuriating scent of expensive perfume and sweat and champagne. You dare to open your eyes.





	but it will not come near you (unless you want it to)

The sun shines gently over Suzuka, the sky so bright it could fool someone into believing the storm has passed for good. You don’t think the clouds will ever clear over this damned place. You live with this surety etched into the softest parts of your heart – the rains always pours down on the asphalt, the wind howls and weeps, the sickening crunch of carbon fiber being destroyed by the merciless impact cuts the air.

“-on me,” Lewis grunts against your neck, “focus on me, Charles.”

God forgive you for wanting an easy way out, but you do. You wrap your legs around his waist – _stay, stay, stay_, it screams. You breath in the infuriating scent of expensive perfume and sweat and champagne. You dare to open your eyes.

The black lines over his tattoos shift with his muscles, and you watch them, half mesmerized. It’s the first time you’ve allowed yourself to like him for demanding your undivided attention. It’s the first time you’ve allowed yourself to watch him. And it’s good, you have to admit. The faint sheen of sweat twists Lewis into something glorious, glittering and acutely real. You need real. You need his solid weight, his relentless thrusts, his panted obscenities – _you’re so pretty_, _I missed fucking you_, _will you be good?_

To which you even answer. A melody of _oh _and _me too _and _yes yes yes_. You butcher your mouth to take these from the depths of your throat, but they come out through high-pitched moans and whines as Lewis goes deeper, harder, faster.

It’s nothing you’ve ever done before. Being loud and vocal and responsive. He’d complained about this once, after Bahrain, where you were willing to claw your skin off for a second away from his attempts of taking your mind away from it. Your thoughts are used to wandering around aimlessly through the circuits, through the possibilities and chances and millimetric mistakes. But now, you take a deep breath and buck your hips back, craving and craving and craving a moment of complete silence.

“God, Charles, look at you–” You linger on every word, every little gasp, the way his body tenses as he struggles to speak, the strength of his hands on your skin.

It’s going to bruise. He likes leaving those in places that will surprise you. When you’re almost forgetting him, settling into your own existence outside racing, you always catch glimpses of fading purple across your body. You don’t bat his touch away, you don’t suffer through it with mild annoyance. You raise your head to suck a mark on his collarbones, lapping the remnants of champagne from his skin. Your muscles shudder with the effort, or it might be his cock inside you making you lose your focus.

There’s a growl, buried in your neck, and the mere sound makes your spine tingle. And yet, his mouth is gentle, licking and kissing until you’re writhing, until you tug at his hair and pull his head to kiss him. Lewis is all too eager to kiss you back, teeth and tongue and something obviously reckless. _Yes_, you think deliriously, as he makes a small, whined sound. _Yes_, your mind repeats, as he grabs your thighs and fucks into you roughly, impatiently, beautifully, without any fucking restraint.

“Lewis!” You cry out, dragging your nails through his back, resting your hand on the cross inked on his skin, spine arching. “_Lewis_! God, faster! Please!”.

“C’mon, keep talking. _Keep talking_.”

You do. Among all the other desperate sounds you make, you babble in a multitude of languages, some of which you doubt he even understands. It doesn’t matter at all. You’re burning, white-hot bliss kicking in and everything else but him dimming until it disappears. It’s just Lewis. Lewis fucking you through it and after it. Lewis all but clawing your sides. Lewis muffling a scream on your chest. Lewis coming inside you. Lewis shaking and shivering. _Lewis Lewis Lewis Lewis Lewis_, you mind hums.

He falls on the bed by your side, breathless and exhausted and glowing. Your eyes dance over him, drowning in all the dark ink and muscle and sheer beauty. In the silence of your head, you count to ten. You don’t get up and remove yourself from this narrative at the end of it as you always dutifully do. You stay there, hearing your own panting and nothing else, not even your thoughts. The ceiling above is pearly white, and it’s impossible to know how much this lasts – minutes, hours, entire ages.

There’s a tentative touch on your arm. You look to him, and Lewis is looking back. His face hides nothing, and it’s easy to read everything from the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles. For once, you don’t resent him for winning this much. For once, you don’t think about winning at all. You watch, with a frozen curiosity, as the hand on his arm travels down to cup your waist and drag you closer to him, to bask on warmth that radiates from his body. It comes to you that this has never happened before.

“Happy early birthday,” he mutters, voice ringing with a lazy laugh even as his heart tattles on him and races just beneath your ear. “Did you like your gift?”

You snort. “Get up again and I might find it acceptable.”

“Challenge accepted, pretty boy.” You can feel his grin against your shoulder, and you turn to face him just so you can grin back, defiant and positively boyish.

It’s infectious and unexpected, his little chuckle and the kiss he presses against the column of your throat. You don’t know what to make of it. You don’t know if there’s anything to make of it. For once, as the sun starts to set over Suzuka, casting the entirety of your world in a ghostly and golden light, your mind slows down. There’s nothing to notice besides Lewis’ chest moving with his breathing and how warm you feel.

**Author's Note:**

> here am i again with more lewis/charles because i appearently like this pairing very much  
and jesus what a fucked up race on japan - i mean, high emotions but why would ferrari fuck up this much again????  
this is kinda related to (un)impressed but like only vaguely. no need to read it unless you wanna make me happy


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